Second
by aelisa
Summary: One thing is clear: Maureen comes second. From April suicide's to the start of RENT. Mark/Maureen, eventual MoJo.
1. First

**A/N:** This idea first struck me a while back. It's by no means completely original, but I wanted to give my interpretation, throw some ideas out there, you know… I don't find this easy to write, which may or may not show, I'm not sure. Feedback is welcome, but if you're going to criticise, please be constructive. I haven't written a series in years (seriously), so I'm a little rusty: go easy on me! This won't be a very long story, but I'm going to take you from just before April's death, up to the start of Rent. Hopefully. And yep, this talks about the suicide a lot. If you don't like that, please don't read.

So, um… enjoy?

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Rent or any of its characters. Incidentally, I don't own emotion, either. Isn't that interesting?

-- -- --

"So, spill," Maureen chirped, flopping down on the sofa opposite April. Her curls fell about her face messily, her top had ridden up past her belly button, and a piece of gum rolled about in her slightly open mouth.

April couldn't help but smile. The image only reminded her of one of the reasons she wasn't going to tell Maureen: she wouldn't be able to handle it. She was so young, carefree, and yes, dramatic. April didn't want that. She wanted to go quietly, without having to put up with the offers of support. Her mind was made up, though her stomach clenched at the thought. "What do you mean, spill?"

Maureen groaned and rolled her eyes, "I'm your best friend, I think I can tell when something's bothering you." April raised her eyebrow and shook her head. "First, you didn't want to go out, and then you let Roger go without you, and _then_ you told me to go. You hate being alone."

"Shows how well you know me."

The brunette looked momentarily affronted, and then she sat up and glared at April, her eyes sparkling. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Ericsson. You're just trying to upset me so I'll leave. I want to know why."

"I don't like you."

Maureen laughed softly and April grinned.

"What's he done?"

"Who?"

"Roger, dumb ass. Unless there's another 'he' in your life?"

"There's The Man," April shrugged casually, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as she glanced at her friend. Maureen's eyes immediately hardened, and her jaw clenched as she pulled her shirt down to where it was supposed to be.

Glaring at April through the curtain of hair that had fallen to bar her vision, Maureen spat, "That's not funny."

"True, though."

"Do you have to be so fucking proud of it?" She stood suddenly, an arm gesturing angrily. April laughed, and Maureen groaned and slumped back to her seat, fixing a disapproving frown on her face. "I know what you're doing, April. You're deflecting, trying to rile me so I'll forget that something's bothering you."

"So sue me," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. She didn't want to argue with Maureen, not now, but she also didn't want to allow cold feet the time to develop. It'd taken her long enough to convince herself that this path was the right one for her, for she was sure she couldn't handle the information she'd received a fortnight ago, and she was certainly not strong enough to live with it.

Maureen staying behind whilst all the others went out was an obstacle that, much to her annoyance, she had not foreseen. No, in her mind, it'd all worked out perfectly: she'd pretend to be sick, she'd apologise, she'd say that she loved them all, she'd tell them to go on and have a good time without her. They would. Then, she would do it.

"You're pissing me off," Maureen sighed, pulling on a pair of worn black boots, "For weeks, you have been really moody… and yet, I'm determined to help you." Grinning, she stood up and offered a hand to her friend, nodding her head towards the door, "Come on, junk food calls. We won't tell the guys."

To them, spending money on things that Mark and Roger didn't consider as 'essentials' was a game, making them feel young and irresponsible and naughty. They enjoyed hiding empty bottles of alcohol and pizza boxes and wrappers of chocolate bars. They had a box in which they kept the CDs they bought, and when they got new clothes, they pretended they'd always had them and would chastise Mark and Roger for not being good enough boyfriends if they claimed otherwise. And then, when it came to paying for their share of the groceries or bills, they'd bat their eyelids, blush and bite their lips and immediately be let off the hook.

But Maureen's bright, mischievous smile wasn't matched as it usually was. Instead, April avoided the hazel eyes and shook her head. "I told you, I've got a killer cold. You think I'm going out there tonight?"

Huffing, Maureen retracted her hand and stuffed it in her pocket. Her brows furrowed slightly as she tried not to be overly concerned, to convince herself that she could help April through whatever this was with the assistance of sugar and liquor. This was April, she lived how she wanted to: the wild, Bohemian lifestyle. Perhaps it was just catching up with her, and she was tired. _She's April, she'll be fine,_ Maureen reasoned, heading to the door.

"Fine. I'll go, and you better pray nothing happens to me out there. God only knows what could happen to a girl who wanders the streets this late, alone!" She glanced back at April, who fixed a smile on her face. "And when I get back, be ready to start getting yourself sorted with the help of Aunt Maureen."

Then, she blew April a kiss and closed the door, unaware that she'd just seen her best friend alive for the last time.

-

April tried to stop herself from looking at Maureen, but she couldn't help but glance up just in time to catch the kiss Maureen sent her through the air. She giggled softly, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She was nervous and upset, thinking a lot about how she was going to make the others feel, reminding herself how much this was going to hurt them.

_Put yourself first, April._

So she did. She scribbled the note frantically, feeling sick to her stomach at how unfair she was being to Roger. She should have had the decency to tell him.

She was a coward.

The first cut was short and shallow, a preparation. Blood pooled beneath the surface, but didn't spill. The second cut was quick and merciless. The blade tore through her skin, deeper than she anticipated, and she swayed, blinking slowly. She heaved as she looked down at the bloody gash. The third cut made April double over and throw up. Her whole body quaked, making the cut of the second wrist shaky and painful.

A few more minutes of blurred vision, relentless cutting…

After that, there was nothing.


	2. Second

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this and add to story alert and things (: Special thanks to Smokeland Fredrick and emma for reviewing part one.

---

"Honey, I'm home!"

Maureen frowned, dumping the two bags down on the tattered armchair and sighing. "April?" She glanced around, brushing her hair out of her face. Light spilled from beneath the bathroom doorway, and Maureen trotted over, rapping the thin wood with her knuckles.

"I'm back," she called, leaning against the frame. Her cheerful tone barely disguised the fact that she knew that something was very, very wrong. She didn't know what it was or why she thought that way, but the feeling was too overwhelming to ignore. Her pulse quickened slightly when she knocked again and there was still no answer. "Fine," she said, "ignore me, but I'm coming in anyway."

The first thing she saw was the blood. Confusion stole her, then fear, and eventually, anger. Then, nothing, for numbness denied her to feel the hysteria which was mounting inside of her. For now.

She did not notice the note, scribbled on the chipped mirror in eyeliner. A note which would explain everything: 'We've got AIDS'.

-

Maureen didn't hear the front door slam shut, nor the voices and shuffling of feet, nor her boyfriend calling her name. She sat in a pool of blood, a head in her lap. Her mouth was open slightly, her eyes distant and shining as they stared down at the woman's face.

April's blue eyes were closed but uneasy, creased at the corners. Her thin mouth was open a little, there was scarlet blood staining her dirty-blonde hair, her clothes were drenched. She did not look peaceful, she looked lost, damaged. Maureen couldn't understand how she'd failed to see it before. Before it was too late.

A strange, guttural noise caused Maureen to jolt slightly, but she remained only vaguely aware that there were other people present now.

Roger searched for a reason before succumbing to any other emotion: there had to be a reason. Why would she do this if there wasn't a reason? His heartbeat quickened and the oxygen left his body as he took in the sight, his eyes frantic. He froze when he saw it, finding the explanation he sought.

By the time Roger had swayed and clutched the sink, white, Mark had registered the whole situation. He was paler than usual and shaking slightly, but otherwise, he seemed perfectly in control. He moved to Roger first and rubbed his back as he heaved.

Neither of them noticed when Maureen finally looked about, bewildered by the new presences. Then she clocked April again, and her lips became pinched, her eyes blinked slowly, and she pulled the still woman closer to her. She was already cold, Maureen realised with horror. Still, she shook her gently and mumbled something which Mark thought sounded like 'I didn't mean it, honey, you were fine.' He didn't understand, but his gut wrenched at Maureen's tone, at how ruined she sounded.

But that wasn't his priority, he decided, pulling Roger out of the bathroom and sitting him down. He forced a glass of water into the trembling hand; it was received without acknowledgement. Roger's eyes didn't move. Mark stared down at him, opening his mouth and then thinking better of saying anything. Instead, he moved to the phone, hit 911 and explained the situation like he never even knew April. A robot, empty and cold… Like her body. The body which lay in Maureen's lap.

When he returned to the bathroom, he found himself swaying in the doorway. He was not prepared to see it again. Maureen was still sat in the same position, her eyes were still unfocused, her lips were still moving slightly. The sound she produced was a low, almost inaudible rumble.

Mark moved to her slowly, grimacing as he tried to keep from slipping on the blood. He refused to look at the mirror. "Maureen?"

It was three times before Maureen finally tore her eyes away from April's rigid face and looked at Mark. He wasn't sure whether she actually saw him, so he lifted a hand to brush across her cheekbone and push some hair behind her ear, trying to bring her back to the present. "Baby," she sobbed, falling forward so her head lay on his shoulder. Finally, she cried, as if the situation had only now hit her. Mark held her awkwardly, cooing softly into her ear as her body shook. He tried not to be unnerved by the fact that his best friend's girlfriend was lying between them, dead.

When the ambulance arrived to take April's body away some time later, Mark breathed a sigh of relief, whilst Maureen clung to April and apologised repeatedly through her wracking sobs. Roger didn't look up, but closed his eyes when they carried the body out. People who lived on their floor peered out from their doorways when the body emerged, their hands covering their mouths, apparently horrified. Mark glared at them all and returned inside.

He went to Roger first.

-

Maureen's breathing was slow and uneven as she stared about the bathroom. She sat in the tub, naked and shivering. The shower was running, and the water was slow and cold and heavy against her skin. She'd used her clothes to absorb a lot of the blood, careful to keep her mouth shut and her hands away from her face. But it was still there, crimson and shining, with April's face reflected in it, and Maureen couldn't look away. It made her feel sick and guilty and useless, but she supposed that she deserved it.

After the worst of it had dried on the floor and Maureen thought she was clean enough (something she could tell by sight only, for she still felt contaminated), she left the bathroom, tiptoeing around the red the best she could.

Mark found her on the balcony some time later. She sat in nothing but a robe, her hair wet, her eyes bloodshot. He moved next to her and cautiously took her hand. "Did any of it get into your mouth? Maureen?"

She turned to him finally, and shook her head slowly. Mark exhaled, stroking her hair from her face. "You need to rest, come on." He tried to pull her to their room, but she snatched her hand back and folded her arms.

"I'm staying here, Mark."

He scratched his nose, resigning from this battle already with a weary sigh. "Fine, but I have to go check on Roger…"

"Fine."


	3. Third

**A/N: **So, this was the chapter which came to me first, the whole reason I'm writing this story. I found it quite hard to write, so I apologise for how it might read. Also, I understand how Mark might be coming across, and although Roger does need his support (yep, I'm totally justifying his priorities O:), he needs to notice Maureen. Right? Right.

Thanks again to everyone who read and alerted, and once again to Smokeland Fredrick and emma, as well as IfIDeGreenifyYou (which is an awesome username, btw!) for reviewing.

-- -- --

Maureen woke up several times during the night, clinging to the sheets and shivering. Each time, she glanced to her right, eyes seeking out her boyfriend in the dark. Each time, she was greeted with a dusky void.

When she did sleep, yesterday was mercilessly replayed in her dreams, with red-tinged, curling corners. It was dawn when she wandered out into the living area. Twilight flooded the apartment, illuminating Mark's sleeping form. Roger was sat in the shadows, and Maureen moved over and sat next to him. She put herself in his arms, leaning her head on his chest and taking his hands in hers.

Maureen wanted to say something. To apologise, to console… something. There were no words.

Neither of them moved nor spoke until Mark began to stir. He rubbed his eyes and replaced his glasses, then groaned suddenly, as if only just remembering everything that had happened. His light eyes landed on Maureen and Roger, and he wondered how long they'd been like that. Just staring.

After a few moments, he put himself in their line of vision. Maureen rose and swayed, and Mark gathered her in his arms, kissing her forehead. She looked tired, he noted, and pale. But better than Roger, whose bloodshot eyes were distant, blank.

-

The smell of the bathroom filled the apartment, but it wasn't until mid-afternoon that any of them dared approach it.

"Maureen, please," Mark had whispered, as if this would prevent Roger from hearing, "it has to be done. We need food, we need to eat, and if you can't go out there, I'll go. But it has to be done. Please, Maureen. Look at him." And she had.

Now, armed with a bucket, bleach, a sponge, a black bag and some old towels, Maureen was standing just inside the bathroom, leaning heavily against the closed door. Her breathing was difficult and hitched for several minutes, calming in correspondence with the warming light bulb. As the light got stronger, the scene became sharper, harsher. The back of her hand flew to her mouth as hot tears rolled smoothly down her face.

It took several minutes before Maureen began to work, and her hands shook and her eyes cried. Several times, she was certain she was going to be sick or pass out. She poured the bleach haphazardly over the dried blood, and then dropped a towel to the floor. Wearing her already-ruined black boots, she moved the towel about with her foot, gagging as the blood transferred from the tiles onto the frayed fabric.

She reminded herself that she was doing this for Roger, and for April. It should be her, she reasoned. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt, didn't jar, until she felt herself become cold and paralysed with fear and guilt.

After an hour or two – Maureen lost track of time in this tacky vacuum – the bathroom smelt of bleach and soap, painfully clean, but the sticky scent of dried blood clung to her like a parasite. Her eyes felt bruised and her body weak with the effort of crying and cleaning. She stared at the bathroom mirror and saw the outlines of the words April had scribbled there. She blinked, and they were gone, but she wet the sponge and wiped the gleaming surface again. Later, Maureen would insist on buying a new one.

She tore her clothes from her body and stuffed them into the bag, along with the ruined towels and sponges, the empty bleach bottle and her boots. She tied the bag and threw it out of the room, suddenly unable to bear to have it near her. When she shut the door, her breathing was laboured, and she dived for the toilet, slamming the lid and seat up, retching and eventually throwing up.

She spent the next two hours in the bathtub, not even realising when she began to shiver in the cool water around her. Already, she was fed up with grief, and was horrified to realise that something new was stirring in her stomach: anger. The question 'how could she do this to us?' crossed her mind, and she immediately felt overwhelmed with guilt. How could she possibly understand what April must've been feeling? She didn't have the right to blame her for anything.

And then, she was sobbing again, hot tears splashing into cold water.

Mark didn't come near in the whole time she was in the room.

-

He found her on the fire escape about fifteen minutes after he convinced Roger to get some rest. When he relayed this story to Maureen, she smiled, but knew he'd probably spend the night staring at the ceiling. Still, she admired Mark's efforts, even if they did rouse a faint ebb of something in her chest, which wedged itself between the remorse and sorrow.

With her, Maureen had a plastic grocery bag, and there was an empty vodka bottle lying nearby. Mark took her in his arms and turned his face away briefly; she smelt of liquor and disinfectant, and it took some effort to stop from gagging.

"Did you drink all of that?"

"Yup."

He sighed deeply, and she rolled her eyes, her head against his chest so he couldn't see. She really wasn't in the mood to be lectured. If she wanted to drink, she would damn well drink. She lifted her head a little, about to tell him that, when he cut her off: "I want you to be tested."

"What?"

He hesitated. "Tested. Maureen, you were sat in a lot of infected blood for a long time."

"You do realise how ridiculous you sound, Mark?"

"No, Maureen, I'm serious," he chewed his lip and sighed, "for me. Just to be safe." He was stumbling over his words and his cheeks had flushed, under Maureen's unblinking scrutiny or the cold February air or otherwise, neither could be sure. After a while, Maureen nodded. It was only slight, easy to miss if you weren't waiting for it, but it was there. An agreement.

He kissed her lips softly and thanked her, stroking her dark hair out of her face. For the first time since before they'd left yesterday, Mark looked Maureen in the face properly. He inhaled sharply, trying to cover it with a cough. She didn't notice. Her eyes were swollen, the white now more red. Her nose was a similar shade and her lips had already started to chap. Carefully, he lifted her hands into his lap and inspected the palms and fingers. The skin was an angry cerise and peeled, as though she'd been scrubbing her hands relentlessly for hours. She was already looking ill.

"We'll go to see the doctors tomorrow," he promised. Maureen, too drunk or tired or disinterested, didn't realise that he'd said 'doctors'. Plural. "Come on, let's get in." This time, she didn't resist when he tugged on her hands to get her to stand, but she swayed slightly when her bare feet hit the cold metal platform.

She clung to Mark, even when she was safely sat on her bed. Her knuckles were white, blaring against the darkness of the room and Mark's maroon shirt, which was bunched in her hands. She did not cry, she did not speak, she simply held onto him, staring at her hands. Mark thought it looked like she was trying to convince herself that he was there.

Eventually, when Maureen had slipped into a state of reluctant semi-consciousness, Mark pried her hands away, gently nudged her to lie against the pillows, and left the room.


	4. Fourth

**A/N: **I suck at updating. BUT, I do have an excuse, and I'm gonna use it! My laptop charger has kicked it (again), so I'm using the family computer (which, in itself, is rubbish), which is in a room which is currently being decorated. So it's kinda awkward for me to get on. So here's chapter four. I'm trying to make the chapters a little longer. Joanne will probably show up next chapter, but don't hold me to that!

Thanks again to Smokeland Fredrick and IfIDeGreenifyYou for reviewing the third chapter. It means a lot, guys!

-- -- --

"I'm not going," she said stiffly, feeling like a child.

Mark was standing over her, a hand on his hip. Maureen glared at him; he looked like her mother used when trying to coerce her into doing something she didn't want to do. However, unlike Mrs. Johnson, Mark was destined to win this battle.

The ride to the hospital was loud and uncomfortable, but the silence that lay between Mark and Maureen was palpable and blaring. The pair was sat in front of a group of rowdy teenage boys and across from a stiff, rich-looking couple who were alternating between shooting disapproving glances at the youngsters and disgusted ones at Mark and Maureen.

For most of the journey, Maureen kept her eyes down and ignored the glances while Mark held her hands and stroked the backs with the pads of his thumb in a way which was meant to be comforting. The brunette shifted uncomfortably for fifteen minutes or so, before pulling her hands away and shooting out of her seat. "For fuck's sake, stop it!" She yelled at Mark, pulling the attention of the teens as well now. "And you!" she continued, whirling to face the couple, "would you like a fucking photo? Mark, Mark, you've got your camera! Take some film for these nice people!" As she shouted, she began to fumble with Mark's clothes, through her bag, apparently searching for the camera.

The couple were on their feet too, threatening to call security or the police or something. Maureen didn't hear any words, she simply cackled, stepping towards the older woman menacingly. Her husband moved to Mark, who held up his hands and tried to calm down the situation. By the time the tube's security arrived, the train had pulled to a stop. Maureen yanked herself away from the guard's grip, screamed obscenities, then threw herself onto the platform. Mark apologised, seized his girlfriend's bag and made after her, just as the doors of the train were sliding shut.

Once they were back on the street, Mark finally managed to get hold of Maureen's hand. She didn't pull away, but she also didn't stop. Mark bit his lip: it was like she didn't even know he was there.

"Where's the hospital, Mark?" she asked after a while. Quietly.

-

The hospital was a smelly, bustling place, and as soon as she was through the doors, Maureen was reminded why she avoided these places at all costs. It was when she was looked at a sickly-looking child with chapped arms that she finally turned to Mark and asked him why he wanted her to come. He didn't respond.

When they finally got in to see a doctor an hour or so later, the atmosphere was tense. Maureen was guided to a hard bed which had a curtain pulled around it: she could hear pitiful sobbing, distant shouting, a detailed conversation about cancer. She wet her lips and folded her arms, looking between her boyfriend and the doctor.

He was a relatively old man, with a grey beard, thick eyebrows and crescent-shaped glasses. He sniffed every few seconds and clicked his pen constantly, and stared at Maureen for a while, before turning to Mark, realising, perhaps, that he'd get more sense this way.

"How can I help?" He asked, smiling a little. Maureen scowled into her lap.

"My girlfriend," Mark began awkwardly, "she um… well, our friend… and Maureen…"

"My best friend slit her wrists and my boyfriend thinks I might have AIDS now," Maureen interrupted, eyes solid and voice harsh.

Mark winced, but nodded, explaining the situation properly, in the same robotic manner as he'd done when calling for the ambulance. Maureen answered similarly, with clipped answers and hard glares. They ran their tests and said they'd call her when the results came back. "Great," she droned, sarcastically, "can I go now?" Mark took her hand between his own and looked at her with such pity, such sorrowful understanding that she was sure he was about to tell her that her mother had died.

"You need to see another doctor," was all he said, then broke eye contact. Maureen glanced at him, curiously, with a frown.

A few moments of silence passed before anyway spoke again. "Another doctor?"

"A psychologist…"

A pause. He expected her to blow up, to storm out, to slap him. What he received instead was quiet question: "Why?" Honestly, he felt he'd have been able to deal with any of the other imagined options better. He flustered, stroked her hair and shot her patronising looks. She rolled her eyes and snapped at him, figuring that just accepting the situation had to be better than _this_… whatever _this _was.

When they finally brought the psychologist in, a pretty little blonde with dark, friendly eyes, and she started to talk about how it was normal to feel like Maureen did, the brunette shook her head, got to her feet, and walked out of the hospital.

-

The funeral took place on a cold afternoon in late February. The rain fell in heavy sheets, ice-cold and bruising to the skin. The church was eerily quiet, echoing with the sounds of winter. Nobody wanted to speak, so Maureen got up and tried to say a few words. Collins was the one who realised when she began to flounder, and he was the one who rose from his seat and escorted her back to hers. He held her to him, stroked her hair and whispered softly. Maureen found that this was the comfort she needed, and later, would thank him profusely for his support and unwavering friendship.

Collins watched the funeral from the stand-point of a childhood friend: upset, but feeling like something of an intruder for showing up. He hadn't known April for long, but he'd liked her, and had found himself shaken by the news of her death. His first thoughts, however, were not for himself, but his friends. When he'd probed Mark, as gently as he could, for details, he was furious. With April, for giving up when there were people – like him – who lived with the disease every day. With Mark, for suggesting that Maureen even be involved with the clean-up. With himself, for not being able to go home to stay.

He would do his best for Maureen while he was there.

The wake was held at the home of April's distraught parents. Maureen detached herself from the group and stared about the room, examining the photographs. The girl she saw, the April Ericsson presented to her, was not the same girl she knew. Her hair was brown, her eyes happy, his smile easy. "Your daughter," she told April's mother coolly, "was one of the best people I ever knew." With that, she swept out of the little house, leaving the older woman to wonder who on earth she was and how she could possibly have meant words when she spoke them so casually.

Collins watched the exchange, the baffled and broken expression on Mrs. Ericsson's face. Mark didn't even notice when Maureen left because he was too busy trying to telephone Roger, who'd gone straight home after the service. Sighing, the bigger man shuffled out of the house after Maureen.

With shaking fingers, she pulled a cigarette from its packet and handed one to Collins when he leaned on the wall next to her. He smiled and shook his head, "I'm trying to quit."

"Me too," Maureen replied, lighting the cigarette and bringing it to her lips. "I'm also trying to quit alcohol, but I drank a bottle and a half of vodka last night and my head's paying for it today." She glanced at him. His face was unreadable, his eyes non-judgemental, "I miss her."

"I know."

"And if I drink myself into a stupor, I forget and eventually pass out, so I can't bother anyone then," she grinned, but Collins thought it was weak and false. He resisted the urge to scoop her into his arms, shake her, and then just hold on to her until she was fixed. He'd never realised how fast someone could go down.

She scooted closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder, the exhaled smoke mingling with Collins's misty breath. The smoky haze danced for a moment before evaporating. Maureen closed her eyes. "I just feel for Roger."

"What about you, Mo?" He asked, snaking one arm around her waist after removing his hat and placing it on her head. It fell down over her eyes and she laughed lightly.

"My girlfriend didn't slit her wrists," she didn't add 'and not even have the decency to tell me why first', which she'd really wanted to do. Although Collins had come to accept it, Maureen was still not ready to admit that he had AIDS, and was very sensitive about the subject. So, until she could accept that her oldest and best friend was going to die long before she was – if statistics were anything to go by – she would tip-toe around the subject and hope that it would go away.

"Your best friend did."

"My best girl-friend. You're my _bestest _friend, Tommy," she said, with a smirk and a shoulder-nudge.

He smiled back, and then his face was serious. The look was not one Maureen was used to seeing him wear, and she looked away, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, "really, Maureen, how are you?"

There was an aching, cold silence for a few moments as she finished her cigarette. Then, she looked up at him. Hazel eyes met chocolate, Maureen bit her lip, before falling against Collins's chest, bunching his coat in her hands, and sobbing.

They stayed like that for a while, Collins just holding her, realising she didn't need to hear the perfunctory reassurances that everything would be ok. Eventually, her choked cries died to a sniffle, and he pulled her away from him gently by the shoulders, searching for eye-contact. "Baby, you're not alone. Okay?" He waited until she nodded, even though they both knew it was irrelevant. Collins couldn't hang around, and Maureen never expected him to. "Coming back inside? I'm freezing my ass off, girl!"

She smiled and nodded, wiping her face with the back of her gloved hand. "In a minute. Really, I'm okay," she stared at him until he retreated, and then she examined the holes in her plain black gloves.

-

"Get through?"

Mark whipped around, setting the phone back on its hook and forced his hands into his pockets. "No," he breathed, sounding defeated, "where's Maureen?"

"Outside." Collins held up a paw-like hand as Mark nodded and tried to move past him to go to her. The shorter man looked up slowly and quirked an eyebrow.

"Can I pass, Collins? My girlfriend needs me."

Collins nodded, "You're right there, Marky. But I need a word," Mark's raised eyebrow lowered to meet the other in the middle, his forehead creasing. "Look man, I admire what you're doing for Roger. It's amazing. But Mo, she's… she's sinking, Mark." He expected the look of mild surprise that crossed Mark's pale features. He exhaled slowly. "Just a head's up."


	5. Fifth

**A/N: **I've had a busy few weeks, but hopefully I'll get back into the swing of writing this fic and get a few chapters up over the coming weeks (:

Thanks so much to Smokeland Fredrick, Sweet Lunacy and EB91 for reviewing the last chapter.

-- -- --

The lights swirled around her head and she squinted to try and bring them into focus. Aqua and pale red entwined in a treacherous tango, copper and blood orange in a smooth waltz. They snapped and swirled, taunting. The woman bit her lip and tried to follow the tracks, watching as the divide between the red and orange became stark. She felt torn as the colours split up, one couple slinking through the window, the other, out of the door.

-

The first thing she acknowledged was the light. Not bright or confusing, but normal and white.

The morning sunshine, sickly and sickening, spilled in through the large windows of the apartment, and Maureen raised her sleeves to her eyes to try and shield them. Her body ached, her head pounded, and her dream was fresh and vivid at the front of her mind. She blinked slowly, eyelids clinging to the disturbing images as daylight tried to burn them away. A groan filled the room, and did her body not feel like lead, she would've probably jumped when she heard a deep reply: "I know the feeling."

She raised her arm from her face and opened one eye slowly, finding Roger sprawled over the armchair, clutching his hand to the back of his skull. She smiled a little, but her face ached. "How are you?"

"Just dandy. And you?"

"Same." They both chuckled slowly, Maureen pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes, Roger yawning. "Did you sleep?"

"I passed out. And you?"

"Same." They laughed again, and then silence shrouded the room. "I can't believe it's been a week." Roger looked at her without a hint of emotion, except for the lost look buried in the depths of his eyes. The look was his reply. "Yeah, it has," she confirmed, smiling softly, then bringing her hands to her face and breathing in deeply.

"You okay, M?"

"I should be asking you that, Roger, I'm sorry," she said, pulling her hands away and sitting up, showing Roger how her face had fallen when behind her palms. "We haven't really… talked, since it… happened."

"Nothing to say."

Maureen's instinct was to protest, to explain that things needed to come out, that it would help him deal with it and make him feel better. The words died on her tongue, leaving an unpleasant taste, as she realised that she didn't believe them, that they were just the words Mark had been saying to her. And she resented him for it. She sighed and shrugged her agreement.

"I'm getting out of here tonight," she said.

"Hmm?" He quirked an eyebrow.

"Wanna come?"

Roger glanced out of the window and stared for a short while. Maureen watched as a heavy grey cloud crept up on the unsuspecting sun, and she predicted a storm. Instinctively, she pulled the blanket around her. "No, I'll stay here."

"Where would you be going?" Mark asked, stretching as he stumbled out of the bedroom.

"I'm going out tonight. Coming, Marky?"

He looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Behind his glasses, his eyes flickered between his friend and his girlfriend. He played with his fingers, scratched his forehead and chewed the inside of his cheek. Then, staring at Roger, he shook his head. "I'll stay…"

"Mark, seriously?" Roger drawled, "Go out with Maureen. I don't need a babysitter."

Mark looked dubious. "What if I don't feel like going out?"

"But you do."

"How do you know?"

"Because I do."

"Fine, I'll go!"

-

Maureen wished he hadn't come, because he just sat there fiddling, on the edge of his seat as if waiting to make a break for it. Maureen rolled her eyes and downed her drink, glaring at his temple. "Mark." No reply. "Mark. Mark!" He turned towards her quickly, and she was sure she almost heard his neck crick. It looked like he'd only just noticed her. A faint blush crept onto her cheeks as she tried not to feel too humiliated. "Go home, Mark."

He tried to protest, but she was firm and relentless. Honestly, she wanted – no, _needed_ – to be left alone. His presence was not a comfort, but an annoyance, and once or twice, she'd found herself imagining smashing her empty glasses on his head, just to make him notice her and understand, just a little bit, how she felt. It seemed both easier and safer to just… send him away.

When he was gone, though, she immediately began to feel sick and tiny and lost. She looked around the club through tear-filled eyes, the reality of the situation biting as it dawned on her so completely: April was dead, Roger had AIDS, Collins had gone again, Maureen meant less to Mark than Roger did… The facts danced before her face and she refused to look at them.

Instead, she chose to focus on her glass.

-

She'd watched the scene play out with some interest. The woman had stared at the man whilst he looked off into the distance, until she appeared to have had enough and sent him home. She couldn't hear what was being said over the pressing blare of the club, and people kept walking in front of her, so she couldn't read their lips. She didn't need to: what was happening was horribly obvious.

She sipped her drink as nonchalantly as she could, quirking her head to the side as the man leaned in to kiss the woman, and was presented with a flushed cheek.

It had been ten minutes since he'd left, and the woman hadn't broken her blank stare at the tumbler before her. The only difference was that now, tears clawed at her eyes, begging to fall. It was a further two minutes before they were allowed to, and she watched with fascination and pity as the perfect tears rolled down the reddened face. What was more interesting was that people kept glancing at her, some worried, some disgusted… but nobody stopped. Not one person, not even to ask if she was alright. A human's incapacity to feel – sympathise or empathise – with another, still astounded her, even after all this time as a lawyer.

And she'd dealt with some _bastards_.

These people were averting their gazes, lowering their eyes like the broken woman was somehow dirty, and if they looked at her for too long, they would become infected. It was easier to pretend that she wasn't even there. They were hypocrites, for they already had to be somewhat hopeless themselves, to be in this dive. She smiled into her drink, corkscrew curls bouncing about her face and she shook her head.

For a few moments longer, she observed the woman from a safe distance. She noticed how her hair was ruffled, how her make-up was smudged, her clothes were aged. She noticed how her hands trembled, and then she noticed that the skin there was red and torn, and noticed that her nails were bitten down. Once again, she felt overcome with compassion…

No. No, it was definitely pity.

But her pity was pointless, patronising even, and she was about to ignore her instincts and leave, go home and sleep, when the woman's shoulders began to shake. A quiet quiver, but there, and it stirred something in the lawyer that she couldn't quell, no matter how much she reminded herself that this was none of her business. Somehow, she didn't believe that this woman needed to be alone right now.

So she joined her.

-

Maureen struggled to steady her breathing. The high intake of alcohol and low intake of food was making her queasy, and the thumping music was giving her a headache. But even as people walked past her, even as she felt eyes on her, she had never felt more alone. It gave her time to think, to remember, to forget. Confusion encouraged a fresh bout of tears.

She wanted to sink into the shadows and cease to exist, and not only in her head. It was hard to define reality and fantasy, with the colours and sounds and smells all merged into one black ball of nothing. And Maureen was watching it happen, outside of it all but desperately wanting, _needing_, to be swallowed. She emptied her glass and added it to her small, steadily expanding collection. No-one had come by to collect them.

That was why she was surprised when someone approached her. She stared at them, vision blurred, not hearing what they said, only aware that there was sound, heat. Slowly, she rose to her feet. Was she being asked to leave? She didn't know, but she didn't want to wait to be thrown out.

Then the person, a woman, she saw now, reached out a hand and touched her arm, and the world came crashing down around her. She brought her hands to her eyes, blinked rapidly, and then looked up to find everything back in place. She fell back into her seat, eyes fixed upon the new face.

She was pretty, she guessed, but there was nothing particularly outstanding about her. Like Mark. Maureen smiled uncertainly, and the woman smiled back. It was nice, genuine, if not slightly humiliating. She sank lower in her seat, suddenly aware of how she looked… That was not the problem. No, the problem was that she didn't care. She didn't feel like herself anymore, which surprised her, since the world had just seemed to reform with Maureen at its core.

The woman pushed another drink in front of her, and Maureen took it hastily, barely aware that she might've just accepted this woman's attempts to hit-on her, supported them. She sipped slowly, the taste sour against her scorned tongue, the nodded her thanks. She didn't trust herself to speak. The tears still slipped down her face silently.

"I'm Joanne."


	6. Sixth

**A/N: **I'm outta excuses, I know! Although Sixth Form _is _killer, my only reason for failing so much with this story is this: I. FAIL. So, to anyone who happens to still be interested in reading this, once again, thank you. And I must apologise again, because this chapter is pretty much a filler chapter… but filler is better than nothing, right? Eh… maybe not "/ But here it is, all the same!

Thanks to Sweet Lunacy, outboundhat, FlemRem, Smokeland Fredrick and Poet Screaming for reviewing Fifth (:

-- -- --

It was such that the clouds were tinged with red, and the sky was more blue than it had been in months.

-

"And where have you been?"

It took her a moment to react to the situation she'd just walked in to. The curtains were half-drawn; Roger was asleep – or was it passed out? – on the sofa; Mark was before her in the arm-chair. His knees were apart, his chin lowered, his hands nursing a glass of something. She raised her eyebrows and bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Hi, Dad."

He sighed and stood up; Maureen was grateful, for that image of him as some sort of mafia boss was ludicrous, and was making her experience amusement she wasn't ready for. "I was worried."

"I'm fine, Marky," she said, avoiding his gaze when he took her face between his hands and stared at her. All sense of amusement abandoned her in a rush when their eyes finally locked: she felt exposed, dirty. "I'm fine." It was a whisper of a statement, yet it echoed around the room. Mark broke away from her, his shoulders sagging forwards, his hands flying to his face, raking through his hair. His body started to shake, and Maureen took a step forwards, extending a hand. It didn't touch him.

"You're not," he said after a time, when the sounds of their breathing and Roger's snoring and the truth became overwhelming. "Maureen, you're not fine." She shifted, uncomfortable with his tone, the way he was staring at her, the epiphany that he'd just experienced obvious.

He shook his head. She found herself mirroring him.

Then she was in his arms. His nose and hands were in her hair, and her eyes were crying. "I'm sorry," he said.

Was he crying, too? She shook her head, took him by the shoulders, and held him away from her. They stared at each other, as if for the first time. "It's not your fault," she insisted, though a part of her scoffed, resentful.

He thought about taking her back in his arms and holding her until she forgot. But this was New York, and this was Maureen, and this was Death. An embrace wouldn't be a cure: it would be an embrace. He sniffed and thrust his hands in his pockets, suddenly awkward. They were both glad he decided not to touch her again at that moment.

"So."

"Yeah."

"Where've you been?"

She stared at her nails, seeing Joanne there, on her fingertips, on her mouth. She saw Joanne, and how she had kissed her, and how she had pulled away, and how she had apologised. She saw herself, blushing and still half-drunk, tears in her eyes, but grateful for the contact, and she saw herself pull Joanne towards her. Then, she saw Joanne pull away, gently shake her head, and get up to leave.

Why, then, did Maureen feel so guilty? "I met an old friend. She has a guest room."

Mark's tense body seemed to relax suddenly; Maureen thought it was because the 'old friend' was a woman. She smiled a little. "She's a lawyer."

And that was all Maureen could remember about Joanne. She'd left that morning, leaving a note of apology and her number. Spare them both the embarrassment of rejection, of any sort of relationship; if Joanne wanted to contact her, she could. If she didn't… well, nobody would be hurt.

"Oh? Should I be worried about the competition?"

Maureen froze, but then he laughed. So did she, but nervously.

"Shut up, 'mtrying to sleep." Roger mumbled.

The room fell into that awkward semi-silence once more.

-

The three of them spent the day indoors, wrapped up in blankets the cool sunlight tried to trick them into deserting. Their hands and wrists stuck out of the material, tossing cards down, flipping them over. Maureen laughed as she turned her card and won the game. Roger collected, shuffled and dealt. Almost simultaneously, they all sighed.

"This would be _so _much more fun if we had money to take from each other," she remarked, smirking.

Mark nudged her, his eyes watching her over the tops of his glasses. "Just because you're winning."

"Ahuh. Not all it's cracked up to be, Marky, let me tell you." The room fell quiet as they gathered their cards, staring at the hands they'd been dealt with rapidly fading interest. There was nothing to do inside, nowhere they could afford to go to outside, and so cards was the best that it got. And, after almost three hours, it was getting boring.

Maureen opened her mouth, to announce that she'd won again and that she was bored, when the apartment's phone rang. Maureen got to her feet far too quickly and shrugged off the curious looks she got in response.

She was surprised to find that her face was hot and her hands shaking a little, her heart and stomach constricting as she picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Who is it?" Mark and Roger chimed, grinning like children for a moment.

"Oh, hi," Maureen turned her head to look out of the window, so her mouth was facing away from the men, and so that they didn't hear her not-quite-freed excitement, and the way it was mingled with embarrassment. But the thrill was there, and it was the most Maureen had offered over the past few weeks. They didn't get to hear it. "No, it's fine, _I'm _sorry," she exhaled. Was that relief, panic, nothing at all? "Thank you, by the way… for not… you know." It was quiet for a moment; Mark and Roger exchanged glances, the former anxious, the latter curious. "I'd love to, no-no, I'd love to. Tomorrow? No-no, it's great. Ahmm… ahmm… yeah, great! I'll be there. Bye…" she smiled, "bye."

When she turned around, they were both staring at her. She quirked an eyebrow, smiling as she absently twirled a curl around a finger. "What?"

-

She still couldn't bring herself to get ready in front of the bathroom mirror, even though Collins had replaced it several weeks ago now, at her request. She sat, armed with her make-up bag and a portable mirror with a crack in the middle, on the fire escape. Where she'd been for the past half an hour, despite the biting cold and the threat of rain in the air. Should she wear lipstick? What colour? Should she change?

Glancing over her shoulder as Roger climbed out to join her, she decided that she'd just wear gloss, and that the tight jeans and heavy jumper would do.

"Fuck me, it's cold," Roger remarked casually, pulling his old blanket around him more tightly.

"Mhmm," she mumbled, applying the red lipstick that had become lost in her make-up bag months ago now, maybe even longer. The last time she could remember wearing it, Benny lived here and she didn't, and Mark was taking her out. A date. Second date, third? It had been the first time they had sex.

There was silence as Maureen rubbed her lips together, watching her reflection, and the faded outline of Roger's, as she did so. He held a cigarette between his fingers and his eyes stared out over the city. At night, she thought, it looked much less daunting, less broken.

"So… where are you going?"

"I'm not sure. We're meeting by that club from the other night. Common ground," she chuckled.

"With your friend?" She nodded, "who you've known for a while?" She nodded. "But you need to meet on common ground?" She nodded.

He quirked an eyebrow, throwing the butt of his cigarette over the rusted fencing of the fire escape. "No!" She exclaimed suddenly, shaking her head, "No, we don't _need _to meet on common ground, we just… it's just easier." Roger looked sceptical, but said nothing.

"I haven't seen her in a while, not properly," Maureen told him, trying to be convincing. "I'm glad we're… catching up. Coming in?"

He nodded, but placed himself in front of her before she could return inside. He crossed his arms around his middle, his blanket hanging off broad shoulders, and sucked in the cool air slowly. "Maureen," he started, and she grinned, unsure, "Maureen, look. I'm not stupid. And-and… Mark's not either, he'll catch on eventually…"

"Catch on to what?" she asked quickly, forcing the calm and the laughter into her voice.

Roger sighed, but his voice was hard when he spoke again. "Just… just don't break his heart, Maureen. He's a good guy – he doesn't need whatever this thing might become." Her forehead was creased and her brows furrowed as she looked at him, offended, embarrassed. "Do _not _break his heart," he repeated, directly into her ear as she tried to push past him. The sound was hot against her skin, and it made her blood curdle and spine become cold.

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments: he was serious, she was guilty.

She fled inside.


	7. Seventh

A/N: So, I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this anymore. We all know the outcome, but there's a whole bunch of ideas swirling around and none are really sticking. So I think I'm probably going to be looking at wrapping this thing up pretty soon, since I suck at this series business and updating and shiz. This chapter's been written for weeks, but I wasn't (and am still not) happy with it. But it's been over a month, and this is ludicrous! I'm sorry, once again!

Thanks to Obvs-obsessed, narcissmy, Sweet Lunacy, Smokeland Fredrick and Poet Screaming for reviewing Sixth. Ily 3

-- -- --

When she saw her, she blushed, and immediately pretended to look around until she felt the burning fade away. She looked hot, she knew that, but she couldn't help but feel a little silly, in her tight jeans and her tank top and her sexy leather jacket, when Joanne was sat in a smart little pinstriped suit and modest heels. She fought the urge to turn around and run home to change, sniffing and fixing a smile onto her face as she approached the other woman's table.

It wasn't like there was anything more sophisticated in her closet for her to change into anyway.

She wanted to say something smart, or sexy, or maybe even both.

"Hi," she said, and her voice caught in her throat thanks to the dryness she hadn't known was there. She coughed and sat down far too quickly, too inexplicably flustered to notice how Joanne's breath hitched, how she sat up a little straighter and smoothed her suit when she approached.

"Are you feeling better?" Joanne asked after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

Maureen grinned a little to try and stop herself from blushing. She remembered, despite having been more than slightly inebriated, everything from her last meeting with Joanne. "Yeah… I'm sorry for… you know. Yeah." She smiled and stood up, gesturing towards the bar. "Can I get you a drink?"

They spent a few moments arguing over who was going to pay, but Maureen won and Joanne settled for buying the next round. Honestly, Maureen needed a moment alone to think. She was angry at Roger for saying such things to her, for _warning _her like she was a child. Maureen could have friends if she wanted to. It wasn't her fault if Mark was too wrapped up in Roger to notice. It wasn't her fault Joanne wanted to get to know her.

Then why was her stomach clenching, a pressure pulling it downwards? Why was there a blush staining her cheeks? Why did she feel like a teenager again?

Besides, she reasoned as she walked back to the table with a slight sway in her hips, she didn't even know if Joanne was into girls.

-

Three hours later, Maureen's back was against the outside wall of the club, her fists crumpling Joanne's perfect suit-jacket, her lips smiling as Joanne kissed her a fierceness which made her breath catch.

-

She got home at around two, and wasn't surprised to see the watery white of Roger's eyes through the darkness of the apartment. He was lying on his back and not blinking, his fingers playing an invisible guitar on his stomach. As she moved closer to him, she heard that he was humming softly.

"Hey," she whispered, "where's Mark?"

He shrugged. "I escaped him."

She sighed, rubbing her temples as she felt the rush of Joanne's kiss evaporate. She was only a little bit surprised that he was high: he _was_ an addict. But a part of her had figured that April's death and her revelation would make some profound difference on his life. He was just running away, and she couldn't stop herself from being angry at him. He owed April, for all her failures and bad decisions and betrayal. He owed it to her to at least try where _she'd_ given up.

The needle that lay near him came into her line of vision as she turned her head, trying to ignore the humming. She clutched at her stomach and hissed as she felt it clench, felt vomit suddenly burn the base of her throat. She swallowed thickly and pinched the bridge of her nose with her free hand, trying to rid her mind of thoughts of sticky red and of used needles. Shared needles.

Where was Mark? If he was devoting so much fucking time to Roger, why hadn't he stopped him from getting high? She wanted to show her anger, to scream at Roger to pull himself together, to scream at Mark to be better, but she was suddenly tired, where moments ago, she'd felt exhilarated.

-

Joanne didn't call for two days. Maureen didn't even have her number, and she hated that she had no control. She took it out on Mark, hissing under her breath that he should be doing better for Roger. And she knew that this was the part of her which wanted more excitement, more adventure, more attention, pushing her boyfriend away.

Both men of the apartment noticed how her face lit up when she held the receiver to her ear at half past four that Monday afternoon. Mark flushed and fiddled with his camera, and Roger looked between the couple with a hard glare.

This time, Maureen glared back.

-

The next week, when they met, they kissed with much more ardour and freedom and want.

Maureen slipped out of the apartment when Mark was trying to convince Roger to see a doctor. She leaned heavily against the outside wall, heels of her hands pressed against her temples as she closed her eyes against images of April's body and Collins's laughing face.

As she walked, she thought of Joanne, and after about ten minutes, she thought only of Joanne.

They didn't stay at the bar for more than a single drink, bored of the atmosphere and of the struggle to hear one another. Their hands came together automatically, and Maureen smiled at the softness and the contrasting tones. They were at Joanne's apartment far too quickly, their legs channelling their anticipation, excitement.

Even Joanne found that she enjoyed feeling like a teenager again.

Two glasses of wine later and the women found themselves entwined on the sofa, laughing as their hands wandered and their mouths roamed. Maureen's face was flushed, her lips smiling, as she was reminded what she was missing with Mark.

Joanne noticed her hesitance, even if it had only lasted for the briefest moment, and kissed Maureen's temple with a gentleness that took her by surprise. Her breath hitched and she couldn't look at Joanne for a moment, blinking slowly to stop herself from crying. This was not her. This was ridiculous.

"I have a boyfriend." Joanne just nodded. "I don't love him."

That was all she would say, and after a short while, Joanne succumbed to her kisses, designed to distract them both.

Joanne pressed her body to Maureen's, her fingers trailing downwards and making the other woman shiver and gasp. When they found her heat, Maureen tipped her head back and decided that she didn't mind not being in control now.

-

The city pressed against her as she walked through the streets, weaving between people and not even noticing when they bumped her. The afternoon sun was weak through the blanket of grey, losing a battle to the rain that was to descend. Maureen felt her body move of its own control, in its own direction, her head beating out a rhythm of dull throbbing.

Goosebumps came to the surface of her skin as the wind teased her, and she smiled to herself as she allowed herself to become immersed in memories only just elapsed. The way their bodies had somehow managed to meld together, the feel of her tongue, the light in her eyes. Her taste. Her sound. Her smell.

All things Maureen had once noticed and loved about Mark.

But this was different, and dangerous. As she walked, she rubbed her thighs together a little and groaned, glad the noise and buzz of the afternoon drowned her and her teenage-girl glow, which was only fuelled by the slip of paper adorned with blue ink which she caressed between her fingers in her pocket. It meant equality, and something lasting. All in one phone number.

-

She was greeted with noise and was immediately roused from her daydreaming. Grinning, she threw her bag down and forgot that she smelt of cheating and sex, forgot that her body was still reacting to Joanne, and skipped into the kitchen.

He didn't look well, she noticed, but his dark eyes still twinkled and his demeanour was still gentle. He would live – by God, he would live – whether it killed him or not. Overwhelmed with happiness and pride, she screeched a little, a combination of his name and a noise of pure excitement, she ran to him and jumped into his arms.

"I've missed you, Collins!" She announced as he twirled her like a child, pretending he didn't know anything.

And in that moment, Maureen didn't see Roger's anger and didn't care that Mark's cheeks were red and that his heart was breaking.


	8. Eighth

**A/N:** What is this thing? An update? In under a month? Wow. It's looking like there's only going to be a couple of new chapters after this one, 'cause I think my ideas are semi-sorted. And there's not much more to say.

Thanks to Roxanna Black and Orange-Green for reviewing Seventh (:

-- -- --

It soon became routine.

Every other night at eight o'clock, until the nights dawned earlier. Then, it was seven. They would meet everywhere, but only ever go to Joanne's. Partly because Maureen was embarrassed by the place she called home, but mostly because Mark was still pretending he didn't know about his girlfriend's affair. Roger was still glaring between the two, but was often too high to fully register the tension, the deceit.

-

She felt sick as she held the blade over her skin, a storm cloud waiting to pour. The cold pressed against the flesh of her thigh, but she hadn't the heart or the guts to press down and drag. _Do it_, her mind urged, _it's only a movement. Do it._

And she wanted to. She really wanted to, but the nausea was overwhelming, and she threw the knife from her, from her unharmed wrists and stomach and thighs, and shoved her fingers down her throat. For a few long seconds, she just wiggled them, massaged the back of her tongue, until her heaves amounted to something and the contents of her stomach were expelled with a deafening stream of splashing.

It was hard.

She didn't want to kill herself; she didn't even really want an escape. She just wanted to know what it was like, if it had any appeal. She needed to understand, to let go and to forgive, to clean the invisible stains with her own blood sacrifice. But she couldn't even bring herself to scratch in a mark.

Weak. She was weak. April was weak. She gagged as she brushed her teeth with a desperation unheard of, refusing to look into the mirror to see her best friend staring back, partially hidden behind the words that she'd scrubbed away from the surface of a different mirror weeks ago. They were ingrained in her mind, and they burned.

_We've got AIDS. _

_We've got AIDS._

_We've got AIDS._

Maureen was HIV negative.

Her results had been sent in the post, and when she opened them, it took her several moments to comprehend what she was seeing. The room closed in on her, the oxygen abdicated, the silence chimed. It all came back in a rush, and she dropped her head into her hands and began to shake. She didn't cry; she wasn't even sure what to think. She responded to the warmth of a body by leaning against it, not caring who it was, just grateful for the anchor.

It was Collins, and she felt the relief radiating from him as she showed him the results.

But she couldn't celebrate, and didn't yet feel the relief. The slip of paper had reminded her of things she hadn't yet managed to forget, of Collins, and she'd sped into the bathroom, locked the door and with it, locked out the world. She found the knife immediately, beneath a clean, old face-cloth and next to a brand new toothbrush that appeared to have been forgotten by its purchaser.

It was an impulsive decision, to try and harm herself, but the fact that she couldn't confused her. Not even a little cut. Not even a little bit of pressure. And that reminded her of how April must've done it, how April must've felt, how April must've cried out.

How April must've been so utterly desperate.

That was what sickened Maureen the most.

-

"You need to be more subtle, Mo."

She blushed and played with her hair, smiling a little. "I have no idea what you mean." It ended up sounding more like a question. Collins glanced over and couldn't help but chuckle at the twinkle in her eye and the way that over-sized jumper made her look even more like a love-struck teen. He could tell she wanted to talk to someone about her new lover, and he found himself suddenly torn between two of his friends. Maureen hadn't been happy for months, and granted, Mark had not done the best he could by her, but he didn't deserve to be treated this way.

"Alright. Let me get this off my chest, and I'll listen to you gush." He rolled his eyes and shrugged a little, as if he was so very put upon, and they both grinned. Maureen clasped her hands beneath her chin and looked up at him from beneath her lashes, nodding for him to continue. "Everyone in this apartment knows what you're doing, Maureen, and if you're not going to say it out loud anytime soon, you need to cool down. It's not fair on Mark for you be coming home with lipstick plastered all over your grin."

He pointed to her neck, and she touched the spot and came away with the dark paste on her fingertips. She closed her eyes and touched her own lips gently with those same fingers, the shadow of a smile lingering there. "Fine, go."

She squealed a little, with childish excitement, and wrapped her arms around his middle. "I love you, Tommy!"

"Ahuh, I know."

"And… I think I might love her, too."

He froze, then held her at arm's length, head quirked questioningly. "But you've only known her, what, a month?"

"Yeah, so what? Her name is Joanne, she's a lawyer…"

-

When Maureen introduced Collins to Joanne, something clicked.

This suddenly felt right, and she'd never been so proud to introduce a lover to a friend. Joanne didn't know that the smiling and laughing and hand-holding wasn't the norm for the woman she now called her girlfriend, but Collins did, and he looked at Maureen with that little smile and she nodded.

She did love her. Far too quickly, far too fully, far too dangerously. But it was love, and that was enough.

"So, Joanne. Where you from?"

What else could he do, what else could he say? Maureen was his best friend, and he couldn't be annoyed with her for finding happiness. Meeting Joanne made him understand it, and the next time she slipped into the apartment after hours of unexplained absence, Collins wiped the gloss from her jaw and winked at her.

-

"Collins really likes you," Maureen said, peppering kisses along Joanne's stomach as her ragged breathing started to soften once again. She allowed herself to be pulled up so she was facing Joanne, and grinned to see her flushed features. "You're hot." She laughed that unladylike laugh and watched Joanne shiver. Four hands began to wander and touch, eliciting soft groans. It only lasted a moment or two.

"Are you ever going to tell Mark?"

Maureen stopped suddenly, rolled off of Joanne, stared at the ceiling. "I guess so."

"Do you even want to?"

She looked over at her lover, smiling softly, "You know I do."

"But…"

"I don't want to hurt him. Not now. He's helping Roger and we haven't really been a couple for a while, anyway, and I want to let things get easier for him before I tell him…"

She left out the fact that she was pretty certain that Mark already knew at least _something_, and the fact that they were just too cowardly to say it out loud yet.

-

She hugged Collins goodbye on the first evening of June, holding him for that little bit longer this time. Perhaps it was to thank him, perhaps it was because she knew she wouldn't see him for a while. It didn't really matter.

She wished she could help him. He didn't disappear for months on end just for work. The pattern had started soon after he found out that he was infected, and Maureen tried not to notice the emptiness in his eyes where the sparkle couldn't quite hide it anymore, and the way that sparkle seemed to dim each time she saw him. She tried not to cry as she kissed him goodbye, on his forehead, a cheek, his lips, another cheek. "You better call me, you asshole!"

"I love you too, Maureen."

"Yup, now go!"

From the top of the fire-escape, they stared down at him with hands to their foreheads to shield from the sun, dramatically sombre expressions on their faces as they waved slowly. He chuckled, "Later, bitches!", and that was all it took to snap them out of it. The cheers, cat-calls and wolf-whistles erupted all at once, echoed until well after he'd rounded the corner.

For the next seven months, Maureen would be without a confidant, and would struggle to keep her lips sealed.


	9. Ninth

**A/N:** So my inspiration for this story kinda died, but I promise, it will be finished eventually. Just one more chapter to go after this!

Thanks to Roxanna Black, Orange-Green and Obvs-obsessed for reviewing Eighth all those months ago.

-- -- --

"Roger's going to quit."

She glanced at Mark, the light of the setting sun kissing her pale, sweaty skin as she fanned herself with a rolled-up magazine. A small smile graced her lips and she nodded, "Good for him."

"Yup."

He took her hand and it held it loosely, stroking the back of it with his thumb. She shifted awkwardly and refused to look at him, even as she felt him staring at the side of her face. "Maureen, I-"

"Mark, don't." Silence, but for the drunks stumbling on to the next bar. She forced herself to turn to him. He was shocked to see that tears blurred her vision. "Don't." She repeated. A whisper. An echo. An end.

She leaned against him, inhaled his scent, curled her hand around his t-shirt. He pressed his lips to her temple, enjoyed the contact.

An apology danced on her tongue, but she couldn't force it out. Instead, she lifted her head and kissed her boyfriend on the lips for the first time in weeks.

When she pulled him inside and pressed him against the mattress, she closed her eyes, fighting off images of Joanne and of Mark's eyes. She kissed his neck and clawed his chest and nearly whimpered when he groaned. It would be the last time, and they both sensed it, but there were so many things left unspoken between them that this didn't seem to matter.

She covered her face with a splayed hand when she came, and cried against his chest when they disentangled themselves. Mark just held her.

-

In the height of summer, when the water pipes failed to deliver to their block, Maureen was clean. She smelled of warm water and soap, whose gentle scent was almost suffocated by _her_. Her skin was clean, but he could only _see_ it, see her. They never touched anymore.

And despite this, it became harder to ignore her double life, and harder to accept it. There was someone else providing for her in a way he could not. With shampoos which didn't make her hair dry and harsh, and soaps which didn't smell of death. And in a bathroom where her memories didn't consume her every time she entered it.

How could he compete with that?

Everyone heard the unspoken question, and everyone knew the answer. The inevitable inability and consequential loss.

And so he stopped trying. He stopped trying even though he knew it was the start of the last push towards the end.

-

Several months of silence and knowing, and then a sudden announcement, bag in hand, eyes raised and solid with affected confidence. "I'm going to go now."

He breathed in slowly, hoping to suck the strength from the stale air before him. Then, he turned.

Her body was transfixed in a tremor. The chill, the nerves, the excitement? He couldn't ask. Instead, he simply rose from his seat, shrugged off his jacket and placed it on her shoulders.

She didn't want to look at him anymore, but she couldn't look away, bound by guilt to see his heart break. A slight nod of his head, and nothing shattered in his eyes. It didn't occur to her that, perhaps, his heart had long ago been broken.

"Okay, then."

"I won't be coming back, Mark."

"I know, Maureen. I know that."

She opened her mouth, but thought better of it and nodded, sniffed. Kissed him on the lips and stared at him for a long time. When she finally pulled away, she turned and walked out without looking back at him.

-

She arrived drowning in his jacket and his scent, face as blank as her mind. Her bag was removed from its perch, hanging at the bend of her elbow, and then the weight of the jacket. Her shoulders relaxed and her eyes met Joanne's. An uncertain laugh and arms slightly elevated, palms outstretched in surrender.

A beginning.

-

The quiet roused her from a deep, uneasy sleep, overwhelmed with grainy images she could not understand. As she pushed herself up to sit, sheets clutched around her naked belly, she looked at the woman beside her. She looked at the faint lines forming around her sleeping eyes, the way the lids twitched now and then and ever-so-slightly.

She looked around. Dark wood floor, decorative cushions, colour co-ordination. Shining mirror with ornate frame.

Herself. Blinking back.

She sees her harsh tumult against the perfection for the first time.

And she sees the eyeliner message for the thousandth, a broken image inside the glass, a reflection of the memories of the apartment a world away.

She missed April.

-

Just a week later, she found herself lacing up her boots, pulling on the coat Joanne had bought for her a couple of days ago when she'd shivered as they walked down the street hand-in-hand. She'd clutched at her fingers, cold beneath the tattered knitted gloves.

From the door, she glanced around the apartment without seeing it, eyes falling on the slightly ajar door of the bathroom. An angry sigh, and she slammed out without troubling to lock the door behind her.

She found herself at her old building without remembering having any intention of ending up there. Something tugged in her stomach as a gust of howling wind pushed her inside and carried her up the stairs.

Before the door to her preordained destination, she faltered, then entered without knocking. The door always remained unlocked, for everyone in this building knew that their neighbours had nothing worth stealing. She felt all the guilt of a rich intruder despite not having a penny to her name.

The faint sound of snoring drifted out to where she stood, inanimate between the living area and kitchen, eyes towards it until she closed them and inhaled heavily. She stayed that way until she was shut in the room, its presence pressing against her chest and making it harder for her to breathe.

She opened her eyes one at a time, and faced the bathroom. The tub decorated with coarse male hair. The still-wet floor. The new mirror, the only thing truly clean in here.

Slowly, she made herself stand before it, and looked at her reflection. The words were still written across the glass and her jaw's reflection as she did so. She inclined her head forwards until it met the cold surface, and a shuddering breath stained it with a warm cloudiness.

"You fucking idiot," she whispered with an intensity which almost surprised her. Then, she shouted it, whipped around, fell to her knees, cried.

That was how Roger found her a couple of minutes later, stumbling into the bathroom with sleep still hindering his vision. "Maureen?" But it was more a statement than a question, and he sat down next to her without another word. He pulled her to him and let her wet his chest with her unresolved anguish.

-

The sun had set by the time either one of them acknowledged the other. Maureen lifted her eyes to Roger when they heard the front door click closed and the sound of two voices. Mark called out, and Roger looked at Maureen, her face between his hands for a moment. He then grunted a reply just loud enough and held Maureen until the door open and dim light spilled in around Mark's frame. He waved a hand and Joanne appeared. A sigh of obvious relief, and she rushed forward, taking her girlfriend from Roger.

He stood up just in time to Mark snap his head away and wrap his arms around himself, lip twitching slightly. Roger nudged him out, flicked on the light and closed the door behind them.

"I was worried," Joanne whispered, stroking Maureen's hair. The words made her tears come forward, fresh and ready and biting, and her body was stolen by sobs once more.

"Why can't I forget?" She hiccupped, clinging to Joanne as if she were the only thing that anchored her to reality, stopped her from surrendering to becoming the tornado she was meant to be.

Joanne didn't have an answer, and the silence made Maureen's breathing slow and shallow. And then it came to her, and she pulled Maureen closer, held her that little bit tighter, as if the words she was about to utter were to be a blow. "Because nobody's given you a chance to remember yet."

Slowly, almost reluctantly, their eyes met and a moment of brief, shuddering understanding crashed between them, startling them into a temporary silence. "I'm here."

A broken cry, a grateful kiss to a smooth neck.

It was to be the first stage of healing.

-

It was late by the time the women emerged from the bathroom, and they looked drained. Mark noted that Maureen still had that look to her, the same one he saw in her the day April died. Ruined. Still ruined.

Unfixable.

Maureen mumbled a thanks to Roger, then pulled her eyes to look at Mark through a curtain of chestnut hair.

He looked away far too quickly, and Maureen shifted uncomfortably. Her chest ached and she clung to Joanne's hand like a child, suddenly desperate to get out of here and go to sleep.

When they got to the place they called home (even though Maureen could not think of it as such), they inched silently towards the bedroom. Maureen laid her head on Joanne's chest, and they slept fully clothed, shoes and all.

They slept, even though there was so much still to say.


End file.
